


Over My Grave

by Lothiriel84



Series: Forever Young [2]
Category: The Bunker (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Suicide Attempt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: You're too old to lose it, too young to choose it.





	Over My Grave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eruthiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eruthiel/gifts).



He kicked the door shut, let himself fall onto the bed without bothering with his shoes. He felt numb, and empty – so utterly, completely emptied out he wondered if it was physically possible for him to implode.

(Was saving Tom an act of kindness, or merely testament to his own selfishness? Did that even matter in the end? Come to think of it, did anything matter at all, ever?)

Sleeping pills, the bloody idiot. He thought of the revolver he kept hidden under the mattress, idly pictured the scene in his mind. If he ever decided to take his own life, he would make sure he couldn’t come round to having second thoughts about it.

(He couldn’t do that to Dave though. Not after today, the terrified look on his face etched in his memory for the rest of forever. Maybe one day, when he and Tom were dead, he would climb onto the roof and pull the trigger, his body just another empty shell in the sickening vastness of the Wasteland.)

Damn it all to hell, what was even the point? Everyone they knew were dead, civilization was nothing but a memory, and yet they still lingered, pitiful relics of a past long forgotten. He covered his face with his hands, but nothing came, not even a sob; he wished he was still capable of crying, settled for self-hatred instead.

A knock came at the door, soft, hesitant. He cursed his luck, steeled himself for another emotional scene. Emotions were a plague, they needed to be stopped before they could do any more damage. Damage control, yes, that was something he was good at. He could do this. He was fine, they were all fine.

(He thought of his bones resting comfortably into the sand, bare and silent and not hurting anymore. One day; not just yet, though.)

Dave didn’t utter a word; didn’t have to, the look on his face more eloquent than anything else. He dug a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, offered David one, vainly searched for the lighter.

“Here,” he said, his voice sounding alien and somewhat distorted to his own ears. He lit Dave’s cigarette first, then his own, joined him as he perched on the edge of the bed, faded blankets and everything.

He dreaded the moment Dave would start asking about Tom – was it their fault, and what should they do about him now? Things just happened, one after the other, there was very little point in dwelling on them once they were over.

(His mind automatically drifted to the memory of the day when his life as he knew it had been taken away from him, once and for all. A distant ache, deep down, inescapable. He clamped down on that thought, focused on the flickering of his cigarette instead.)

It took him a while to realise that Dave was watching him, intently, his stance changing subtly to something different than he was used to, something he couldn’t quite place. They were sitting entirely too close for comfort, and yet Dave didn’t seem to mind – quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.

Their arms brushed as he took another drag of his cigarette, then once more as Dave turned to look him in the eye. That was when it finally clicked for David; talking about the situation with Tom wasn’t what Dave was after, nor was he looking for words of comfort from him either.

Right. Sex, he could work with. It was, after all, a far better option than facing the minefield of their own feelings, and a marginally less painful alternative to beating some sense into Tom’s head. Very deliberately, he placed his palm on Dave’s thigh, let himself be kissed for a few moments before standing up, and putting both of their cigarettes out.

(It was only much later, when Dave had dozed off, his face soft and impossibly young in his sleep, that he got up, locked himself into the bathroom, and washed his screams and choked sobs down the drain.)


End file.
